I May or May Not Have Seen Chris Evans’s Penis

I have not recovered.

We don’t know it’s his.

He posted a charming video on his Instagram stories. When the video ends, it briefly scrolls up to reveal the camera roll (not necessarily his camera roll!) and there it is, nestled in the grid. It’s a shadow. It’s a backlighted still-life. It’s a painting.

Reader, it’s a penis.

There is no doubt in my mind. Not to go into my sordid history, but I have seen one before. I recognize the contours. And it is erect. It is waiting, hotly and urgently, for the viewer’s attention. It thrusts to the left, as if it cannot bear the weight of its own desires. Two beautiful, muscular thighs flank it; the owner of the penis is recumbent on a bed, nude like a Renaissance figure, but bathed in curious blue light, like Tron. Silhouetted, the object is rendered in negative space. It’s a postmodern masterpiece, harkening to both the past and the future. Red-blooded, organic lust meets cool, ultraviolet technology. It is an invitation, and a rebellion. It is circumcised.

His knife’s out, alright.

Look, we shouldn’t look at pictures of other people’s genitals, unless they expressly gave them to us as a valentine. This goes double for celebrities, who have to endure the vicious, unblinking gaze of the culture as the Mephistophelean price of their fame. If the image were stolen from Chris Evans, or posted without his permission, the ethical lines are clear. No lookie.